


Forever For One

by secrtdoor



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 03:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9697550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secrtdoor/pseuds/secrtdoor
Summary: In an unknown city at an unknown time Alex Turner is struggling with his immortality and everything that comes with it.





	1. Prologue

There's a side to me that no one must ever know about. That safety switch that should never be turned. A stunt double, lurking in the shadows, waiting to step forward and steal my place. One, that even on the foggiest, gloomiest, drunkest of days cannot be spoken of. It's hidden in plain sight for the very existence of it makes me who I am. 

The nature of this game is very simple. Cover your self with fake sentiments, wrap it in denial, grant it a list of bad habits, develop an attitude, change your voice, build, explore, be original, don't repeat the same phrase, look, haircut too often. Creativity is the key to making it believable. Dig out a hole and put the most elaborate mask on it. Bury the truth underneath. Dissociate. Lie. Pretend. Make a choice and stand by it. But sometimes, just sometimes, it doesn't work.

I haven't been lonely in quite a while. The whole concept of time changes when you have all the time in the world. Eternity makes even the best of us quite selfish, not appreciative enough, forgetful, arrogant, superficial. I like being among people, the ordinary kind, the boring, normal, simple-minded ones. I dissolve in the crowds like a ghost, an invisible man, a reminder of their little imperfections. And the hole gets deeper and deeper by the hour, day, month. Past lies at the bottom. Past, in which I was real. Nothing is real anymore.

This sticky substance they call reality can be easily stretched and twisted, and turned upside down at will. I do it every morning, closer to noon that to sunrise, and recreate an entire universe inside my head. I carry on because there's no way to stop. I take pills, wash them down with wine, beer, scotch, vodka, whatever suits my current mood, and make sure that the mask is still on. No one can know the truth. The real me has died decades ago. He was given no other choice but to disappear. Eternity isn't too fond of emotions, it's blunt and cynical, and unforgiving. It keeps me alive with no clear sense of purpose. It makes me who I am. Who I've always been. A stranger to everyone, myself included.


	2. Chapter 2

I like to think of what happened to me as having a dinner in a fine restaurant. Of course, it's nothing but a comfortable illusion that gives me a sense of control. But considering it an accident, a whim of whatever powers were at play in that particle moment, fairly speaking, hurts my already bruised ego.

I take a seat, look around, wait for a waiter to approach me, all ready to make a request of a century.

"Forever for one, please."

He nods thoughtfully, not even one muscle in his body moves, disturbed. Just another day, another client, another meal. And God knows, it looks delicious, and smells like heaven itself, and you cannot simply look away, change your mind. Your eyes are locked on the plate, and your stomach growls impatiently. The waiter, with hands behind his back, doesn't seem to have anything better to do but to stand right next to your table. One bite. What harm could it possibly do? Everyone holds their breath and the whole room drowns in anticipating silence. One bite is a choice. Eating the rest is a compulsion. Everyone exhales, relieved. 

It's not something to be brought up in a casual conversation, between current political situation in Europe and football results.

"Yes, it seems like the complexities are inevitable. By the way, I'm immortal. So have you seen the big game yesterday?"

Awkward.

And that's probably why I don't have too many friends. Alright, who am I trying to fool? I have no friends at all. The problem with human beings and their wonderful, fascinating fragility, is a truly awful habit of dying right in the middle of developing a relationship. Their lives are so fleeting, so weightless and, sadly, so very short. Everybody dies, sooner or later. Well, except me, but that's a different story.

I've been to a lot of funerals, and the number insists on getting closer to infinity. At some point I surely did lose count and had to start again, but it's easier not to keep track of deaths, since it's merely a natural course of events. How many flowers did I put on the coffins? How many heartfelt condolences did I give? And when did they stop being heartfelt?

I change, just like any person who's not supposed to exist, and so does the world around me. I blend in, adapt and disappear. Crowds mesmerize me. Loud, moving, alive. Even the most independent of us crave contact, the basic human warmth. The fact is that people make other people feel real. On your own, who would've noticed if you just stopped existing? Who would've pointed that unfortunate incident out? Who would've grieved your absence? I'm drawn to them, yet keep a safe distance. Among them I'm a person. Alone I'm a ghost.


End file.
